


Bad Decisions

by foxcatcher



Series: International Purveyors of Pornography [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Adult Entertainment, Anal Sex, Bad Jobs, Crossdressing, Dignity Schmignity, Enzo Is A Friend, Heath gets a chance, Heath's Mottled Past, Hooters, I Don't Even Know, I Know OCs Isn't Everyone's Cup of Tea But I Really Needed Redneck Joey Ryan, If WWE did porn instead of wrestling, M/M, Oral Sex, Pornography, Stereotypes, Wendy's, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-12-22 13:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11968830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxcatcher/pseuds/foxcatcher
Summary: Heath took the scrap silently. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was going to be a hitch somewhere. It all seemed too good to be true. Then again, reading the fine print had never been his strong point.-The one where Heath is stuck in Nowhere, WV, and makes some bad decisions. And it's all Enzo's fault.





	1. A Bad Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Heath makes some choices. They're not bad choices, they're not good choices. They _the_ choices.  
>  -  
> Hello. Welcome. I'm glad you weren't deterred by the OMC - I needed a sleazebag with a heart of gold, and Joey Ryan wasn't lanky or redneck enough for this story. It takes place in Heath and Enzo's shared and mottled past, some years before "Free Agent" and "I Remeber You".
> 
> If you'd like some visual clues as to what Randall looks like, I like to imagine he looks like Joey Ryan and Mac DeMarco had a white trash baby. I also read somewhere that Heath bitches a lot, including during matches, which amused me to no end.

Like everything that went awry in Heath’s life, it had been Enzo’s fault.

Another slow week had been coming to an end, the last in a long line of weeks just like it, and Heath was heading down an all too familiar path – bills piling up, car coughing like an asthmatic dog, no steady work in sight. With none of his seemingly endless job applications having yielded any results, he could only watch with resigned horror as his meagre savings dwindled.

Simply put, shit sucked.

Which is why he found himself hunched over the sink at Hooters on a Thursday afternoon, elbow deep in dishes and fuming. The fact that the dishwasher was broken was the least of his problems, but it certainly didn’t help either. He’d been in a terrible mood all day, and by the time he got to work, he was bitching and moaning at anyone within earshot. The kitchen staff had humoured him to begin with - seeing as they were trapped there with him anyway - but after a solid hour, they’d grown pretty tired, while Heath had shown no sign of stopping. When they had tried to escape, he’d only bitched louder.

Clearly, reinforcements were needed.

“…doesn’t want to give me any more shifts, and the temp agency said they won’t be needing me for a while…” Heath ranted, scrubbing the glass in his hand like he held a grudge against it. “I even went down to the gas station to check, and there was a _child_ behind the counter. Do you have any idea how stupid I felt asking a fucking 15-year old if they needed help with anything? No point either, they’ve got machines for everything these days, so I… Are you listening to me, Enzo?”

Enzo wasn’t. It had taken the promise of food and his favourite waitress’s number to lure him down to the restaurant on his rare day off. At last, he’d come down to act as a whinge conductor for his best friend, and was currently perched on the counter next to Heath, too busy shovelling his way through a massive plate of nachos to hear much at all. “Yeah, dude, all ears,” he said around his mouthful, waving his fork at Heath in a way that was probably meant to seem encouraging. “Heard every word.”

Heath sighed and dropped the glass he was holding to look at his friend. Enzo was wearing what passed for casual wear in Enzo’s world – a dollar-print track suit with no shirt underneath, three gold chains and a scrunchie. Yet again, he was struck by the thought that most people had when seeing Enzo:

_What on earth is this man doing here?_

The town was barely big enough for Heath, so for someone as flamboyant as Enzo, it might as well be a different planet. It sort of resembled one: a desolate moonscape of drive-ins and strip malls that seemed to constantly be holding its breath. Christ alone knew what had brought Enzo here – maybe some kind of community service. Everyone had their theories, but Heath had never felt the need to ask him - whatever it was, it had seemed like he was keen to leave it behind.

The glass hit the surface at a perfect angle, jolting Heath out of his thoughts and splashing dishwater everywhere. Most of it hit his shirt, soaking through the fabric and making it cling to his skin. He made a sharp sound, pulling at the hem. It had been a nice one, too. At least the rest of the staff weren’t here to see it.

“Sorry for whining, man,” he said, wiping his face with his forearm. “I hope you know how much I appreciate you letting me come down here when there’s an open slot. It’s just… It’s like everything keeps piling up, and no matter what I do or how hard I try, it doesn’t make any damn difference.” He watched the murky water swirl around in the sink. It was almost black with char and grease. When he put his hands in it, they seemed to disappear. “And I think I’m running out of options. Short of selling blood and semen, I really don’t know what to do next…”

Of course Enzo would perk up at that.

“You _could-_ “

“I’m not actually going to sell blood and semen, Enzo.”

Wisely, Enzo didn’t say anything to that. Instead, he rustled the crumbs out of his beard and handed Heath his now-empty plate to add to the wash.

“What about that photographer you saw last month?” he asked casually, leaning back on the counter.

Heath gave his friend a fond look. Had they met anywhere else, under any other circumstances, he was pretty sure they would never have become friends – they probably wouldn’t even have spoken to each other. But as luck would have it, they’d been in the same boat when they’d met, both uprooted and struggling to get by in a new town. As different as they were, they’d quickly recognised something of themselves in the other. 

Sure, Enzo had stupid hair and spent too much money on shoes and got Heath into all kinds of trouble, but he understood what it was like to be down and out. To be desperate. He’d been there himself. And he’d never judged Heath for taking the opportunities that were sent his way, even when they involved more nudity than expected.

“Yeah, I’m not working with him again,” Heath said, peeling off his yellow washing-up gloves. “He kept calling me ‘fire bunny’…” He added grimly.

Enzo had gone uncharacteristically silent, gazing off into the distance, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee. Heath braced himself for what would follow. Any kind of silence from Enzo was a bad sign, and it never lasted long.

Like on cue, the tapping came to an abrupt stop.

“Have you tried Randall?” Enzo said, fixing Heath with that bright, intense stare he got whenever he thought he had a good idea. 

“Who’s Randall?”

“Randall!” Enzo repeated, never one to take a hint. “Tall dude with a moustache, works in the kitchen on the weekends. He runs this website and does real low-fi shit with hand-held cameras. I think it’s supposed to be punk or somethin’, I dunno, but he’s a good guy, and I’ve heard he pays his models well.”

Heath supposed the name did ring a bell. When he thought about it, he could sort of conjure up some images of a man he might have seen around, brown-haired and covered in tattoos, but he knew Enzo too well to bite yet.

“Enzo, this isn’t another of your ‘business connections’, is it? Like that guy who ran a strip club out of his basement?”

“You hurt me, bro. I’m a _connoisseur_ ,” Enzo replied, with all the conviction of someone who’s greatest ambition in life was to be a porn intern. “It’s semi-legit, at _least_.”

Before Heath had time to think too much about that, his friend pushed himself up and continued animatedly.

“He owes me a favour. If you’re interested, I can talk to him the next time I see him at work and put in a good word for you. You might get a full shoot.”

In hindsight, he should have known better than to trust Enzo and his “contacts”. The man worked as a manager at Hooters - he was hardly a paragon of good judgement and taste. But in the kitchen, with his hair tied back and the washing-up gloves still in his hand, Heath could feel his resolve crumble. 

“I…” he started. The numbers were swimming in front of his eyes. Knowing the rates, the money would be good, possibly good enough to cover rent for a few months. Maybe he could get his car fixed. There might even be some left over that he could save. And Randall had seemed nice enough the few times he’d seen him.

Enzo gave him an expectant look, and Heath had the distinct feeling that whatever choice he was about to make, it would be the wrong one.

“Yeah,” he said, allowing himself a tentative smile. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, man, I owe you one.”

The other man beamed back at him.

Yep, definitely the wrong choice.

* * *

A week later, Heath found himself squinting against the sun on the dusty Hooters parking lot.

It was late afternoon and the lot was already filling up with the post-work crowd, the air pungent with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. Heath was winding between the parked cars, craning his neck to get a better view – he’d agreed to meet Randall between shifts to discuss the details of the job, forgetting that he only had a rough idea of what the man looked like.

To be honest, he hadn’t quite decided how he felt about this whole… _thing_.

This was uncharted territory. Heath had done a lot of odd things throughout his “career”, up to and including a brief and very unsuccessful stint as a phone sex operator, but he’d never done this before. An actual shoot with another actor. Well, with Randall, but still. This was the real deal. The make it or break it. If this worked out, who knew how many doors might be opened.

And then there was Randall himself.

While Heath had met the man before, it hadn’t been much more than a quick chat in the restaurant changing rooms and the occasional greeting after that. It was hardly enough to build any kind of impression on, but according to Enzo, he must have made an impact on the other man. According to him, he’d barely had time to pull Randall aside at work and put in his good word, before Randall had leered at him and said that he knew very well who Heath was, and yes, he’d _love_ to do a shoot with him. He even had some ideas ready. You knew something was off when Enzo thought you were coming on too strong.

Maybe that should’ve been enough to make Heath think twice about it, but ever since their chat in the Hooters kitchen, an ugly, hopeful spark had been growing inside him. For the next month or two, there would be no more odd jobs. No more humiliating himself. No more begging the temp agency to put him up for anything, _anything_. He could actually get on top of things. Sort his life out. The mind boggled.

A sharp whistle pulled Heath away from his daydreams of regular income and functioning central heating. 

At the far end of the lot a half-familiar figure was leaning against a beat-up Chevy, waving lazily at him.  
To say that Randall looked different outside the restaurant was a hell of an understatement. Within the confines of the kitchen, he’d looked like any other guy in a hat and apron, but here – with his hair messily slicked back, dressed in ratty jeans and aviator shades and an honest-to-god wife beater – Randall looked impressively sleazy. Had Enzo, eternal porn oracle, not vouched for him, Heath wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the man.

But Heath wasn’t one to judge. He had bills to pay. And Randall had already seen him…

“You must be Randall.”

The man in question watched Heath intently as he approached. He hadn’t moved an inch, arms spread out along the roof, cigarette shedding ashes onto the bonnet. Even with the mirrored shades, Heath could tell he was being given a serious once-over.

“And you must be Heath,” Randall grinned back at him, revealing a coin-wide gap between his front teeth. Pushing away from the car, he put the cigarette back between his lips and shook Heath’s hand.

“Call me Randy,” he said around the cigarette, squeezing Heath’s hand just a little longer than necessary. “It sounds sexier.”

“…Right.”

Heath didn’t know where to look. How had he ended up here with this Halloween costume of a man? He’d been the one to insist that they meet during day-time, not fancying his chances at meeting anyone in a Hooters parking lot after dark - but now, with the crowd milling about them, he felt pretty damn stupid. It had to be blindingly obvious what kind of business they were discussing.

Or worse.

He shifted uneasily as a new load of cars screeched onto the lot, spewing out another rowdy group of college students.

“Come on. Let’s go sit in the Moustache Ride,” Randall said, jerking his head towards the rusty wreck behind him.

Heath stared blankly at him.

“You named your truck ‘The Moustache Ride’.”

“’Course I have.” Randall grinned as he climbed into the driver seat. He seemed pleased with himself.

Heath supposed there was something to be said for honesty, and slouched to the other side of the car. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother telling him to never get into cars with strangers, which didn’t even make sense. There had hardly been any strangers around when he grew up, and none of them had looked like Randall. His mother had been more worried about him breaking his neck climbing trees, or getting anyone pregnant.

The inside of the truck smelled like pine air freshener and several years of heavy smoking. Randall was stubbing out his cigarette on the dashboard, lighting the next one while Heath lifted himself into the driver seat. _Great_ , he thought, heavy with resignation. _This is it. This is my life now._ He closed his eyes and waited for the clammy hand on his thigh, or a “why don’t you show me what you can do, sugar”, or possibly being driven off to certain death.

Nothing happened.

Heath slowly opened one eye.

There was a rustle next to his ear. Randall was holding out a few sheets of paper, shaking them gently at him. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and his eyes were warm and crinkled with amusement.

“Your contract. Or, uh, it’s not really a contract per se,” he said, sounding almost apologetical. “It’s more like an agreement, but I give it to all my models, to make sure everybody’s best interests are kept throughout the process. You wouldn’t believe how many _weirdos_ I deal with. It outlines the base rules I have for all shoots. It’s mainly the usual stuff – no filming without protection, half the pay up front, and so on. On the bottom of the last page, there’s an empty bit where you can fill in any requirements or reservations you might have. I try to keep things small scale, so it’ll be just you and me for most of it – my assistant will help set things up, but she’ll leave before we start anything.”

Heath gave the paper a bug-eyed look. This meeting had taken so many sharp turns, he almost felt dizzy. Was this really happening? Was this man the same he’d seen ooze at him from across the parking lot? The one with the Jack Daniels belt buckle?

Carefully, he took the pages and skimmed over them, while Randall droned on. It was indeed a contract of sorts – a thorough, if brief, list of very reasonable rules for a studio that was just the right side of legal. It was almost enough to make him forget the fact that this “business meeting” was being conducted in a rusty wreck called The Moustache Ride.

Heath suddenly noticed that Randall had stopped talking, and tore his eyes away from the agreement. The man was looking at him with an unreadable smile, and Heath was struck by the realisation that Randall had let him into the truck to put him at ease. That he must have seen how uncomfortable Heath had been on the crowded parking lot, and brought him in to allow him some privacy. The car seemed a lot warmer all of a sudden. 

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” Randall said, breaking the tension. “It’d be a bit weird to this without knowing anything about you.”

Heath couldn’t argue with that.

Once they got talking, mostly about sports and Enzo, Randall turned out to be surprisingly personable. He had an easy, self-aware charm about him, like he knew exactly how dodgy he seemed and was embracing it with open arms - in fact, he seemed like the kind of man who might’ve been very successful, had he channelled all his sleaze and charm into, say, promoting clubs or playing bluegrass, rather than making spicy wings and paying down-on-their-luck sad sacks like Heath to fuck on camera. He had also become annoyingly hot, in a way his tooth gap and Kid Rock fashion sense shouldn’t allow, and Heath really didn’t know to feel about that.

Heath still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he wasn’t being punk’d as they wrapped things up and slid out of the truck. Their meeting couldn’t have been more than 40 minutes at the most, but it was already getting darker outside, the noise from the restaurant loud enough to be audible in their far corner of the lot. 

“Hold on,” Randall opened the door and grabbed a tired-looking jean jacket from the driver’s seat. After a bit of fumbling, he pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket and handed it to Heath.

“Here’s the address for the location, plus the rest of my contact info. That’s my home page, in case you want to check out some previous shoots.”

Heath took the scrap silently. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was going to be a hitch somewhere. It all seemed too good to be true. Then Randall winked at him over the rim of his sunglasses and told him to call him if he wanted a “test ride” before next week, and Heath felt like they were back on familiar ground again. 

There was a spring in his step as he walked away. This might just work.

Then again, reading the fine print had never been his strong point.


	2. A Slippery Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have a weird way of working out, even when they don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heath is the unluckiest lucky person in the world.
> 
> Let’s all pretend this isn’t about half a year late... I'm stoked this is finally done - it's one of the most self-indulgent things I have ever done, and I can only apologise. This might also be a good time to tell you all that I've never been to Wendy's.

Things really had not worked out well for Heath.

Clearly, he’d done some truly heinous things in a previous life, and was slowly paying the price. That had to be it. There could be no other reason for _this_.

Here he was, perched on a plastic table and wallowing in self-pity, while Randall’s unflappable “assistant” pulled on his hair hard enough to make his eyes water. Heath had already forgotten her name, partially out of spite, but he was pretty sure it was Kayleigh or Reighlynn or maybe Haylee - whatever it was, she either hadn’t noticed, or simply didn’t care how his neck strained against each brushstroke, snapping her gum and playing music off her phone, the sound of it tinny and small in the barren room.

It wasn’t much of drive-in anymore. It was more like an empty shell – everything that wasn’t nailed down had been removed when the restaurant was closed following the opening of the new motorway, and the space left behind seemed cavernous and hollow. Just enough remained to show what it had once been: the fixed booths, the outlines on the walls where pictures had once hung, the odd chair stacked in a corner. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Or rather, it could be worse. The lights still worked, and Assistant had done a decent job of clearing a booth for them, but it seemed eerie, somehow - like it had been abandoned, the kitchen still neat and full of appliances, as if it was just waiting for the staff to return.

It was dark outside, the darkness made even deeper by the harshness of the light inside, making the real world little more than a smudged outline. If Heath squinted, he could almost pretend there was nothing behind the dusty window panes at all. It was a tempting thought – although they were sheltered from the road, it did nothing to stop him from feeling like he was going to have a heart attack every time he heard a car pass. Randall didn’t seem to have the same problem. In fact, he seemed unbelievably relaxed about the whole thing, and Heath watched him where he was slouched against the counter with a strange sense of jealousy, as he tinkered with his camcorder and whistled along to Assistant’s tinny music and smoked his fourth or fifth cigarette.

Even though the room was cold enough to send goose bumps up Heath’s bare legs, the director was shirtless, and the fluorescent lighting gave his skin a sickly tint. Heath had hoped that the days that had passed since their meeting would have given him time to cool off, but the man was still annoyingly attractive, in a way that still didn’t make sense. He was a patchwork of things that ought to be wrong – lanky and sinewy and sharp-featured – but on him somehow made perfect sense. Wrong-right. Heath didn’t know he was staring until Randall winked at him, flashing him a gap-toothed grin, and then he had to feign a deep interest in the pleats on his skirt.

Ah. Yes.

Had he been anywhere else, the contrast between his hairy legs and the silky fabric of the dress would have been hilarious. It couldn’t be more than a cheap Halloween costume, but next to his freckled knees, it seemed delicate and feminine. He hadn’t felt an ounce of surprise when Assistant had handed it to him, although he wished he had. Ever since he found himself stranded in this godforsaken dusthole, it had been one fucking thing after another. No reason why it should change with this. Really, it was bound to happen, and he’d been an idiot for thinking anything else. Deep down, he had probably known there would be a catch ever since he walked away from their meeting in the parking lot, but he still wished he’d said something. Protested. Caused a scene. Stormed out. Anything but silently taking the dress from her, trying to ignore the feeling that he was scraping the bottom of an increasingly spacious barrel. He’d even tried to preserve some semblance of dignity by changing behind the counter, while Assistant laughed and yelled at him to ‘man up’, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before, and by the way, no point in keeping your underwear on, hon’.

Dignity had become a relative term these days. 

By the time Heath had finished beating himself up over it, Assistant had already finished his braids, put on her coat and was quickly making her way to the back entrance with a bright “He’s all yours, Randy”. The restaurant went deadly still in her wake, silent save for the hum of the light tubes in the ceiling and the rumble of distant traffic. It was as if the whole building was waiting.

Heath didn’t move from his spot on the table. He couldn’t help but feel antsy, fingers picking absentmindedly at the hem of his blue and white-striped skirt – there was a mirror on the wall that he’d been avoiding like the plague ever since he sat down, and while part of him was filled with a morbid curiosity to turn and see what met him, most of him wanted to run of out the building and never look back. He swallowed, pulling at a loose thread. Better get it over and done with. Like ripping off a band-aid. Smoothing a hand over the fabric, he steeled himself, lifted his head and turned to face the mirror.

There were no two ways about it.

Heath was a 6’2” man in a dress.

He was a big, unshaven man in a dress that, while made for a suspiciously tall and broad-shouldered woman, still only reached him mid-thigh. It made precious little difference that he’d refused to let Assistant put makeup on him - there was that whole dignity thing again - since she’d talked him into a slathering of chapstick anyway, and now his lips were glossy and reeked of artificial cherry. But the worst part was the braids. Limp and lopsided, lying dejectedly against his collarbone – even the ribbons seemed to have given up.

 _This_ , Heath thought as he stared into his own eyes. _This is rock bottom_.

Meanwhile, Randall was beginning to stir, whistling to himself and extinguishing his cigarette in the dregs of his Diet Coke like Heath wasn’t having an existential crisis just a few meters away. He pushed away from the counter and stretched lazily, before sauntering over to where the ginger man was slumped, his gait easy, like he had all the time in the world. Heath heard him approach but couldn’t find the will to look up until the toes of Randall’s shoes were touching his own muddy work boots. Every part of him felt like it was sagging towards the floor, infinitely heavy.

“Why, look at you,” Randall purred, lifting his hand to stroke a warm palm against Heath’s cheek. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Heath didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting – laughter, pity, a snide smirk – but when he looked up, Randall was standing in front of him, loose-limbed and smiling like he’d been given a gift.

“I hope Joelle ( _aah_ ) wasn’t too rough on you, she’s only in her first year of beauty school,” Randall continued, letting the hand slide down over Heath’s shoulder to one of the braids, his fingers curling around it like it knew the shape. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d be cool with the outfit, but I’m glad you are. It suits you.”

Like hell it did. Heath would have loved to tell him to fuck off, but it was becoming a little difficult to think. This close, Randall smelled like menthol cigarettes and bourbon and something warm and comforting he couldn’t quite place, and Heath couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he was in over his head. This was miles away from photos and phone calls, no matter what he told himself. The resignation from earlier on had all but evaporated, leaving only a tense, uneasy nervousness – it was as if everything around them had been amplified by the other man’s closeness, and Heath was hyper-aware of the hand on his face, the other resting near his hip, the cold breeze on his bare legs. Randall was closer now, his breath fanning over Heath’s face, and he didn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away. He swallowed, ducking his head, looking away.

“Relax. I ain’t gonna do anythin’ you don’t want me to.”

A thumb stroked along his jawline, so gently Heath felt like he might break. Randall was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. He took a deep, shuddering breath, looking around for something to ground him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Randall’s camera sitting innocently on the table. _God knows how many other poor bastards have been filmed with that,_ he thought and immediately regretted it. But the damage was done. How many people had been here, sitting where he was sitting, with the same gentle hand on their face, the same gentle words in their ear. It felt like the camera was staring back at him, and he closed his eyes, queasy all of a sudden. The questions kept creeping in through the darkness – what if he couldn’t do this? What if he _could_? What if it changed him? What if-

“Kiss me.”

What?

The words cut through the noise in his head like a blade. Randall was hovering so near he could feel his lips tingle in anticipation, but he’d stopped moving. Like he was waiting for something. Heath’s opened his eyes and looked up at the man, trying to read him – was this just part of the game? Another smooth line? Randall’s eyes were warm and calm, as usual, but there was something unspoken behind them – something soft and open and uncertain that he hadn’t seen there before. Something familiar.

He didn’t realise he was moving until he’d closed the gap between them.

-

Randall tasted just like he smelled, just _more_ , and much like the man himself, it had no right being as good as it was. They’d both been caught off-guard by the kiss, but Heath found himself relaxing into it as Randall breathed out a laugh when their noses bumped for the third time, tickling him with his ridiculous redneck moustache. It was disarmingly easy – it felt more like they were making out after prom than anything else, and Heath licked into the other man’s warm mouth, chasing the heady taste. Randall had moved to cup his neck, the thumb of his other hand rubbing soft circles against Heath’s skirt, just enough to send shivers up his thighs. Emboldened by it, Heath lifted a hand and gently placed it on Randall’s bare chest. He was hot – almost feverishly so – and under his palm Heath could feel the sharp beat of his heart, pounding in time with his own.

Something seemed to uncoil in Randall at the touch. Without breaking the kiss, he pulled Heath up and against him and ran his hands down his back, palming the swell of his ass. They were pressed tightly together, tight enough that if Heath somehow hadn’t noticed how excited the other man was before, he now had solid evidence pressed against his hip. _Sizeable_ evidence, too, by the feel of it, and he was suddenly glad he’d had the presence of mind to prepare himself earlier.

Even if it had been one of the more humiliating things he’d ever done, this included…

After Assistant – _Joelle_ , his brain added – had zipped him up, he’d assured her that, yes, he absolutely needed a bathroom break right now, and scuttled off to the men’s room before she had time to say anything. The bathroom had been barely lit, but it was probably just as well, since he couldn’t see how grungy it was - he could just about make out what was left of the mirrors, the shards glinting in the flickering light. Gingerly, he’d made his way to the least offensive stall, locked the door behind him, and awkwardly worked himself open with spit-slicked fingers, while he listened to his own too-loud breathing and tried his best not to think about Randall. It was no use. No matter what he did, his mind kept bouncing back to the man – how he’d fit behind him in the cramped space, how his fingers would feel compared to his own, the things he’d whisper in his ear, until he thought that maybe, just maybe, he liked Randall a little bit too much for his own good. He’d hardly been able to meet their eyes afterwards.

“Fuck, you’re hard…” Randall groaned into his mouth, pushing his thigh between Heath’s and grinding up against him. The friction bordered on painful through the layers of denim and cheap silk, but Heath couldn’t help but grind back, gasping as the kiss grew more frantic.

Eventually, they had to break for air. Randall pulled away first, suddenly enough that Heath staggered back, catching himself of Randall’s arms. Part of him was pleased to hear that Randall was breathing as hard as him, but the other part was a bit more distracted, because Randall… Randall looked good. Like, _really_ good – chest flushed under the tattoos, lips shiny with spit and Heath’s chapstick, his eyes dark and fixed on Heath, and Heath didn’t get it, he really didn’t. Dazed, he watched as Randall stepped back to lean against the table, quickly unbuckling his belt and popping the top button of his jeans, spreading his legs invitingly. It was about as subtle as a poke in the eye, but Heath didn’t mind. Now was hardly the time for subtle. 

Adjusting the (now-crumpled) skirt against his erection, he moved in and knelt between Randall’s thighs, trying not to wince as his knees touched the grimy floor. Randall had managed to shimmy his jeans down just far enough to let his cock spring free, and Heath wasted no time, wrapping his hand around the thick base, giving it a few experimental strokes as he leant in to mouth along the side of the shaft.

There was a series of clicky sounds above him and Heath felt his heart pound as he realised Randall had picked up the camera again. He didn’t dare look up, for fear of seeing the black eye of the lens staring back at him, but there was part of him that got a thrill out of imagining Randall watching him through it, seeing him in double – the real Heath on his knees in front of him, the un-real Heath on the screen, mirroring his movements. The camera was an oddly comforting barrier between them. It allowed Heath to detach himself a little, to watch himself from the outside – like a voyeur, he could see them, himself licking up the length of Randall’s dick, bare knees on the dusty floor, rubbing himself absentmindedly against the lining of his dress.

Face burning, Heath put his hands on Randall’s thighs, closed his eyes and leant in to take as much as he could of him into his mouth, feeling the weight of the cock on his tongue. Randall’s hand came down to rest at the back of his skull, either pushing nor pulling – just letting him know that he was there. Heath relaxed into the touch, bobbing up and down, building a slow rhythm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that Randall was still filming this, and that he was probably meant to make a show out of this, with lots of teasing licks and coy glances to the camera, but he knew he couldn’t risk losing his nerve. Not now. Instead, he focused on the weight of Randall’s palm and the way the muscles in his thighs tensed and relaxed under his hands as he moved, trying to find the things that made him moan and twitch. He had to be doing something right, because Randall’s breathing was becoming more laboured, hips bucking up into his mouth ever so slightly. Heath steadied himself and leant in until the head of Randall’s cock nudged against the back of his throat. The hand on his head tightened its grip, fingers burying themselves in his hair where they could, as Randall gasped sharply. Spurred on by the sound, Heath pushed forward, toing the line, throat working around the length.

There was a groan above him, and then he was being pulled off the cock by a braid.

“Get up, babe.”

Randall’s voice sounded strained, as if he’d been holding it in. Heath let him help him up to his feet and immediately found himself being kissed thoroughly, rough and wet, like Randall was trying to climb into him, tongue first. There was a hand brushing softly against his thigh, trailing up until the fingers skimmed the hem of the skirt, and maybe Heath ought to be freaking out over that still, but instead, he put his arms around Randall’s neck and kissed him back until his lungs hurt. The fingers dipped below the fabric, caressing his bare skin.

“You ready?”

Heath felt more than heard Randall say it, the words ghosting across his cheek. He sounded as punch-drunk as Heath felt, and it took a few seconds for his brain to process what he was actually asking and he managed to croak out a “yeah.”

Neither man moved an inch.

“S-should I…” Heath stammered, making vague circular gestures with his hands. _Get your shit together, Slater._

“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” Randall smiled at him, one eyebrow arched.

Slow as molasses, Heath turned around and bent over the table, bracing his elbows on it. He kept his head down, eyes tracing imaginary patterns in the surface as Randall moved behind him, and then the back of his dress was flipped up, like the skirts on a damsel in some trashy romance novel, baring him to the cold of the room.

“Jesus,” Randall breathed, running his hands greedily over his back. “And you’re all ready for me.”

Heath nodded dumbly, fighting the urge to bury his head in his arms as Randall swiped a thumb over his hole. He felt like he was burning up, despite the chill. The thumb pressed against the opening, testing him and Heath’s breath caught in his throat. Just the simple pressure of the digit against him was enough to send gentle pinpricks up his spine. Randall nudged a little, slipping past the rim, and Heath let out a barely audible keen, and then Randall was _done_ with waiting. In no time at all, he’d pulled on a condom, slicked himself up and pushed in before Heath had time to think.

By the time he finally bottomed out, Heath’s knuckles were turning white against the edge of the table and he was trembling with the effort of keeping still. It didn’t hurt much, although he almost wished it did. It would have given him something to hang onto, rather than this vast, aching _fullness_. Heath could feel every inch of the man filling him, and every time he moved or shifted his weight or so much as breathed the wrong way, Randall would nudge against his prostate, lighting him up from head to toe. He exhaled carefully, trying to relax against the unfamiliar sensation – it had been longer since he’d done anything like this than he’d care to admit, and he wasn’t about to reveal that to Randall.

Of course Randall would begin moving a second before he was ready. That was just the way stuff worked these days. Heath let his head drop to his arms, trying to keep his voice down as Randall pulled out and thrusted back in one smooth move, setting a rough, table-rattling pace, but the unexpected start had fucked it loose, tearing desperate sounds from his throat and sending them ricocheting around the empty room.

“F-Fuck-“

Heath’s hands scrabbled against the table, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to brace himself or get leverage to meet each thrust – it was as if his body was acting on its own and he was just there, trying to keep up with it.

Randall was quieter than he’d expected, letting out only soft grunts and the odd “fuck” or “shit” when Heath clenched just so. His hands told a different tale, his grip firm and possessive on Heath’s hips as he pulled him back onto his cock. _Hand_ , Heath realised. Singular. He must be holding the camera with the other, and Heath flushed at the mental image. As soon as the thought had entered his head, an arm reached over him to place the camera on the ledge of the booth, before looping around his shoulder and pulling him up to face it. Heath could only stare at it, wide-eyed as Randall’s hips snapped against his. He’d slowed down, but the new angle meant he was hitting his prostate dead-on with every persistent thrust, and Heath moaned helplessly, his erection rubbing against the edge of the table. Randall kissed his shoulder, moustache brushing the slick skin, moving up his neck until his lips met his ear and, God, was he talking now? Heath groaned. The director wasn’t saying anything particularly filthy, nothing like what he’d imagined in the men’s room, but every sugar-sweet “that’s it, gorgeous” and “take what you need” made Heath whimper and grind back against him.

Randall released his arm as he picked up the pace, and Heath braced himself against the table, gasping and arching into it, pushing back to meet him. He felt like he was about to burst at the seams, heat pooling deep inside him. _Shit_. He’d spent so much time worrying that he might not able to do this at all, that he hadn’t for a moment considered the possibility that he might come too early. The ribbons in his hair were slipping, the braids slowly unravelling against the table top with every hard thrust, until the baby blue fabric finally gave in and drifted to the floor. Closer. Closer. Closer.

Suddenly, Randall pulled out.

“Don’t-“

Heath’s knees nearly gave in, pushing back against nothing, and without thinking, he reached back for the other man. He couldn’t see him, but his hand was still on the curve of his ass, thumb rubbing soothing circles as Heath caught his breath, chest flush with the table. Straightening his shaky legs, he slowly pushed himself up and turned, only to find himself on his back on the bench next to the table. Heath let out a surprised yelp. One second he was trying to keep his knees from buckling, and the next he was looking up at his bare legs framing Randall’s sweaty, smiling face, and the yellowing squares of the ceiling behind him.

“Uh, hi,” he said, for lack of anything else. He could feel the exposed bits of his back sticking to the plasticky upholstering every time he shifted.

“Hi,” Randall said, voice warm and amused. “You ok?”

“Mhm,” Heath replied, nodding, like he wasn’t about to explode.

There wasn’t much space to move, perched on the soft bench, but Randall carefully pushed back in, making Heath gasp at the fullness. They were close, so close, breathing in each other’s air as Randall gently rocked them – his brows were knit in concentration, gazing intently on Heath’s face, taking in every soft whimper and moan. Heath had never felt so open before – it barely felt like a shoot anymore. It felt like trouble. Too close, too raw, but Heath didn’t want to think about it and buried his fingers in Randall’s messy hair, pulling him in for a kiss, moaning into his mouth. The camera wobbled on its ledge, still aimed at them somehow, as Randall picked up the tempo, swallowing every sound that came out of Heath’s kiss-red mouth as he pounded into him, almost folding him in two. Heath was close, and Randall must have sensed it, ruffling through his skirt to wrap a hand around him and jerk him off in time with his thrusts. Heath’s grip on the man’s hair had to be painful as he tensed, his whole body thrumming as he rushed towards his climax – the moment stretching and stretching until he thought he might snap, that he might actually die, and wouldn’t that just be typical, and then he was coming _hard_ , long stripes across his chest, the striped fabric, his cheek, catching on the eyelashes. Far away, he was half-aware of Randall swearing into the crook of his neck as he came, his hips stuttering, lips touching the corner of Heath’s mouth.

-

Later on, Heath sat in his car, phone in hand, staring out of the window. He’d texted Enzo as soon as he was out of the building, letting his friend know he was alright and don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you asshole, but he kept fiddling with the phone, turning it over between his hands, restless despite the exhausting day. The aftermath of the shoot had been pretty awkward. As soon as the cold, post-sex reality set in, they’d both busied themselves with clearing up, flustered like they’d just lost their virginity to each other or something – even Randall, who was usually the definition of cool, had seemed a bit sheepish, turning away modestly when Heath was changing out of his dress. He turned the screen on again, looking at Randall’s number in the contacts. The letters already seemed familiar to him, and he didn’t know how to feel about it – he didn’t know how to feel about anything; about the envelope full of money that laid next to him on the passenger seat; about the prospect of this becoming A Thing; about the warmth pooling in his stomach at the sight of Randall’s name; about how Randall had said “until next time” instead of “goodbye”.

Finally, he dropped the phone next to the envelope and put the car into gear, and as he pulled out of the lot, he could see the very beginning of dawn peeking out over the tree tops, painting the sky with the pale yellows and pinks and oranges of the coming morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, especially those of you following my ridiculous series. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Heath. I think I enjoy putting you in awkward situations far too much.


End file.
